


The Ghost in the Effing Machine

by binz, shiplizard



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Body Modification, Community: kink_bingo, Fucking Machines, M/M, Other, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-13
Updated: 2010-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:39:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob isn't much of a house guest, but he does all right as a business partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost in the Effing Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 round of kink bingo, for the **fucking machines** square. Part of the ever-popular (not really that popular) 'Bob inspires sex' trope. (And in case anyone's wondering, they're watching the 16th episode of series G, "Geometry".)

It fucking started before the fucking wizard had even closed the fucking door: "Hi, I'm Bob the skull, and this my big red dog Clifford."

"Dresden," Hendricks said, "I will kill you in your sleep."

The wizard turned back, face drawn up in an exaggerated wince that the dumb shit probably thought was a normal everyday expression. "Bob," he said threateningly to the box dwarfed under one of Hendricks' arms. "We talked about this. I get one report of bad behavior, I'm taking the whole _Bend Over Boyfriend_ series back to the store, understand?" He squinted at Hendricks, glanced again at the box, and settled back on Hendricks. "Seriously, he should sleep pretty much the whole time. Follow the literature plan I gave you -- you have that, right? I have another copy; you can have that one if you don't. I've still got another one in the car and --"

Hendricks scowled and held up the folder of papers Dresden had given him, the canvas grocery bag that was packed full of the skull's books and magazines hanging from his wrist.

"Oh, right, right. Okay. Follow that plan, and everything should be okay. Anything happens, CALL ME or call Murphy -- you have the numbers? Good, good. And if you can't get either of us, call that other number I gave you -- I gave you? -- okay, and ask to speak with Justine. I wrote it down for you. If it's an emergency, call Murphy first. I'll probably end up getting a message if you call me; I won't have a phone. Okay. Just, stick to the rules. Don't ask him for anything. Don't let him talk you into a day out. Keep him out of sunlight. He has to do what you say, and he's under commands not to harm you or allow you to come to harm in his presence, or speak any untruths, and--"

"-- DRESDEN." Hendricks said, and wished for a third arm or at least a stick that he could use to plug him up. It was like the guy sprung a leak every time he opened his mouth. "Tell your talking skull to shut its hole, and get outta here before I change my mind." He put the box, bag and file folder on the ground ("Hey! You break it, you bought it, bub!") and crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes and upping his intimidation factor by a multiple of ten.

Oblivious, Dresden nodded and repeated his poorly-disguised goodbyes, swearing it would be a week tops, at least no more than two, all twitchy movements and how the hell was one guy such a constant fuck up, anyway? Jesus. Hendricks pushed the door shut before Dresden was all the way through, and locked the deadbolt with enough force that it would be clearly heard on the other side.

"Literature plan," he said, snorted. "Who the fuck does he think he's kidding? A bunch of skin magazines and romance novels." He bent and picked up the case of beer -- it was that really good stuff, from the little hole in the wall he hardly ever got to, where they didn't look at you funny if you mentioned your long day at a meeting with faeries -- from where Dresden had tucked it against the wall, the bottles clinking. "One case to skull-sit for who knows how long. Christ, I'm getting easy."

"Big, easy, and stupid," the box said from the floor. "One of my favorite combinations."

"You're supposed to be sleeping," Hendricks grunted, and took the beer to the kitchen. How the hell was going to explain this one to his boss?

* * *

 

Two days in, and he'd just about given up on being able to eat anything or go to the bathroom without comment, and had given in to more than a few violent impulses. He'd put the box in the linen closet at first ("I demand to speak to the management; Sergeant Murphy gave me the spare room!"), moved it to the tub in the workout room bathroom, and then put the skull by itself in the oven. It still fucking talked. The smothering thing hadn't worked either, but at least it muffled the sound, so the pillow stayed on the box, and the box stayed by the couch in the living room where he could threaten to throw the whole damn thing out the window when it talked during _QI_ without having to raise his voice.

"Don't you ever watch porn?" the box whined as Stephen Fry coaxed his panelists.

"I thought you were a spirit of intellect," Hendricks said, giving in to the urge to argue. Kind of like scratching a poison ivy rash: ultimately futile, but a little satisfying in the moment.

"Which is why unresolved homoerotic subtext and moronic Welsh carrots aren't exactly stimulating my optic canal, if you know what I mean."

"You don't have human eyes," Hendricks reminded it.

"That's discrimination," the skull said pertly. "Now you owe me some smut. As an apology. I want a lesbian threesome."

"I'd say it was more discriminatory to call homoerotic subtext out of discussion just because the host is gay."

"Oh please, those other two are tripping over each other for his attention." The box snorted before adding, "I'd take a gay threesome too. Oh for Pete's sake it's the Date Line, even you carrots should know that!"

Hendricks decided to expand on the theme of the G series, and discovered that the skull was, sadly, larger than the garbage disposal.

"This is abuse!" the skull screeched, spinning about in Hendricks' hands just enough to make him pay attention to it, but not hard enough to cause him to drop it when he sat back down in front of the TV. "I'm TELLING."

He kicked himself even as he took the bait. He knew better. You dealt with irritating little fucks by ignoring them until you got the chance to hammer them flat. "Oh yeah? Who you gonna tell? Dresden? The guy who dropped you off like his girlfriend's kid on poker night?" He put the skull back down in its box, right back in the indent on the carefully folded beach towel that lined the cardboard. Dresden was such a soft touch.

"How do you know I don't have a union?"

"You don't have a union."

"Do too. Spooks United local 666."

Hendricks pulled a dour face, wishing he'd thought to take one of the beers Dresden had bribed him with out of the fridge when he'd been in the kitchen. "Where's your card? Left it in your other pants?"

"You come down and say that to my face." The box rattled in a way that might have been intended to be intimidating.

TV watching was a wash. Still, he didn't have to let the skull make him angry. He grabbed for the clicker and killed power to the player: Stephen Fry's soothing voice died in the soft metallic whoosh of a DVD spinning down.

"I'm going to get groceries."

* * *

 

As the days wore on, Hendricks learned a few things about his charge. There was the obvious body envy, covered up with cracks about bodily functions. There was the actually pretty in-depth knowledge of mortal security as well as magic shit when he distracted the thing by talking shop.

And 'Bob' -- Christ, Dresden -- was a hell of a gossip.

"Did you go to the _brothel_ today?" it asked as soon as Hendricks was through the door. Hendricks gripped the doorknob until his knuckles ached, and told himself that it was his condo and he would not be chased away by the fucking wizard's fucking talking skull. "I know your boss has brothels. Harry told me." It was like being greeted by someone's incontinent poodle.

Hendricks stopped trying to kill the doorknob and took off his jacket, shaking the rainwater away, his lip curling. "He tell you what he did there?"

"Nothing," the skull sulked, "that's what. It's _Harry_. He doesn't have sex unless someone tricks him into it. It's selfish. He can keep up his 40 year old virgin act all he wants if that's what does it for him, but celibacy isn't my kink. But does he think of anyone but himself? He went to the set of a _porno_ and didn't take me with him. I could have watched the filming! I could have met porn stars!"

"I'm sure you'll never recover." Hendricks walked past the skull without looking down. "Why don't you take a little quiet time and think about it. Say the next year or two." He closed his bedroom door with enough force to give anyone who wasn't the skull a hint, and could still hear it yapping from the living room.

He traded his work suit for a pair of worn jeans and a sweatshirt, and debated just staying in his room all night, except that it was his home, for fucks sake, and he wasn't letting some annoying shit of a talking enchanted faery spirit skull ruin his night in. Even if he did now know more about the wizard's sex life, and lack thereof, than he'd ever wanted to.

It started up again, or maybe it had never stopped, as soon as he opened the bedroom door: "I did see the cheesecake's tits once, and I'm not even allowed to TALK to her. Such a waste. We could do beautiful things together. She looks like she could be a bit kinky. Gets all hot and bothered for teacher, if you know what I mean, but Harry wouldn't notice if she stripped for him and begged. Did that once, too. Not that he took her UP on it. If it wasn't for his aura, I'd think he was a eunuch."

Hendricks screwed up his face and told himself it was like recon, strictly information gathering, advancing into territory after a hostile takeover. Of his kitchen. And he couldn't just take his frying pan and smash the little shit. "And I never get any credit, can you believe it? I've saved his life AND I've got him laid. You think he'd have ever taken Susan up on HER offer if I hadn't given him the recipe for that love potion?"

He paused, head in the fridge, mid-reach for the eggs. "...What?"

"Not that he even did her then -- it got tricky, demons aren't actually known for their social graces, carrot top -- but she wasn't going to try and pin him to the floor without my push. He does like them dominant." It paused, and Hendricks almost hoped that maybe it was done. "Then he went and stood outside naked. Mighty fine exhibitionist streak in that boy. So you'd think he'd be a little more willing to let me watch."

Hendricks beat the eggs and milk with a little more force than he generally used when making an omelet, the silence growing distinctly expectant behind him. He got the onions, mushrooms and peppers chopped before he gave in and peeked over his shoulder. The eyelights perked, burning a brighter orange like candle flame caught in the wind, and he glared back.

The skull sucked on its teeth. He'd had to stop trying to figure out it did that, among other things -- how did it whistle when it didn't have _lips_? -- after the first day, since he wasn't about to give himself a brain hemorrhage trying to make supernatural shit make sense. He'd briefly thought that that might have been Dresden's plan all along; it almost seemed more likely than him having been called out on Winter business for an undisclosed amount of time and trusting Hendricks with the, apparently valuable, little prick even if he didn't like him. If the wizard wasn't such a shit liar, and such a dumb shit period, he'd have been happy to believe it. But it was the fucking wizard and he probably meant every fucking word he'd said. Marcone had certainly thought so when he'd told him, a hand over his mouth that was supposed to make it look like he was thinking, but Hendricks had known Johnny long enough to know it meant he was just trying be polite and business-like about not laughing in his face.

"So," the skull said. "Meal time, eh? Yum yum."

He grunted, and it held out long enough for Hendricks to get the ham shredded, the herbs sprinkled on, and the whole mess in the frying pan.

"BECAUSE," it said, "speaking of feeding. If you checked the list Harry gave you, you'd see that tonight I should get a nice hot side of _Blond Bombshells Over Britain_. Historical threesome, and I hear it's sizzling."

"Tonight. You get it after I've gone to bed. And you read it quietly. The neighbors and I don't need to hear it."

"Oh come on, they'll just be jealous. Think you're having a good romp."

"With commentary?"

"Lighten up, ginger snap! Lots of couples watch porn to get in the mood. Maybe if Harry had a working TV, he'd remember his dick's good for more than pissing with. Not that porn and pissing don't sometimes go hand in hand. Along with other things in hand, huh huh? I bet you've kept them awake a few times anyway; go on, you can tell me. Maybe with the Valkyrie?"

The plastic handle of the spatula snapped in Hendrick's hand, and he blinked down at the pieces for a moment.

"How about it, Raggedy Andy. You tap that Nordic ass?"

Hendricks fished the top of the spatula out of the omelet, baring his teeth as he burnt his fingers, regulating his breathing the same way he did after a long swim or a heavy set of weights. It was only a fucking talking skull. It didn't get to piss him off. It was like a fucking pet gerbil with a really squeaky wheel. He'd made a business agreement, and he was going to stick by it.

"I bet she's a biter. She looks like a biter. Come on, Green Gables. Any claw marks down your back to show and tell?"

And if he backed over the fucking thing with his fucking car, Dresden would just have to fucking deal with it.

* * *

 

It only held out for so long, though, and after a week Hendricks finally had to just start ignoring the thing, like a yappy puppy, even though the loud noise and constant feeling of observation had his nerves twanging.

It shut up around nine one night, after a late dinner he hadn't really had the appetite for, and after making a living hell out of Hendricks' usual _Deadliest Catch_ rerun. The silence had been growing; first it was a minute between whining complaints, then five... it had been twenty.

Was the little shit finally asleep?

He rubbed his neck, feeling the tension up and down through it. He needed to finish eating. Really needed to wind down and feel better. A workout would kick his appetite back into gear; a jack-off session in the shower would finish the second one.

...or he could do the Dumb Thing. He kind of deserved it.

There wasn't much debating over it once he'd considered the idea; he didn't like to argue with himself. Like there wasn't enough conflict to deal with in his daily life already. And in his line of work, dumb without being fatal was a rare thing that should be treasured.

He slipped into his home gym -- it would have been the master bedroom for someone with different priorities, but he didn't need that much room to _sleep_ \-- with a last sidelong glance at the skull. Changed into a comfortable workout shirt, racked some weights; turned on his white noise CD to spare the neighbors some of the pain.

He knew he did dumb shit sometimes -- usually when he was horny or pissed off. Like when he'd been a sophomore in college and a Women's Studies major girlfriend had brought homework to bed. She'd said, brandishing the strap-on like a loaded gun, that he needed to learn about power dynamics, gave a long speech about privilege which he'd have been able to rebut better if she hadn't been shirtless and he'd been laid in the last six months. He'd been horny _and_ pissed off, then.

So he'd let her, and he hadn't learned about power dynamics. He had learned a lot about his prostate, though. Apparently 'hooray anal' hadn't been the lesson she'd wanted him to take away, because that was the first and last time she fucked him, and they'd broken up by the end of the semester, anyway.

He still had the urge occasionally, but he didn't know any women he trusted enough to ask. Or any men, either, not that he trusted _and_ thought of that way: he wasn't sure he could get it up with another guy, anyway. He was practical, though, and they made toys for that. Like this one; a solid silicon vibrator, its suction cup base strong enough to adhere to the bare metal base of his lateral pulldown machine if he moved the pad back.

It was really, really dumb to combine workout machinery and sex, but when you considered that the worst that could happen were some amazingly embarrassing bruises, maybe hemorrhoids, and that it felt _amazing_, it wasn't dumb enough for him to stop doing. He'd blame it on the constant litany of sex talk he'd been putting up with all evening. Hell, all week.

He didn't do this often enough for it to be a habit or anything, but combining his pre-workout warm-up and stretch with lube and an entirely different kind of stretching wasn't as weird as it could have been. He was ready for the pad on the machine to be cold against his bare thighs. Ready for the faint, resonant buzz that went all the way through the metal frame when he snapped on the vibrator.

With an exhale, he sat down on the fake dick, lowering himself by fractions of an inch as he supported himself against the machine. The vibration started to creep up into his gut. There was a faint burn, a tension -- like you got when you worked out.

He gave himself thirty seconds to just adjust to the feeling of the sex toy in him. It was already working -- just the prep had his head as clear as a bell, and there was the meditative feeling he got when he worked out going in his favor, too. He reached up for the weight-bar with an easy mind, and dragged it down for his first seventy-five pound set with a satisfied grunt.

Six in and he was half hard without touching himself. Every time he pulled the bar down, he rocked up a little, maybe half an inch: the tiny motion wasn't much, but every now and then it hit him where it counted. He grunted out his twelve reps and leaned very, very carefully over to add fifty pounds to his pull.

The burn in his ass faded, replaced by the burn in his arms. Adrenaline, serotonin flooded his brain, lifting him into that weightlifter's high that Schwarzeneger talked about. Hell, with the way he talked about it, maybe he had his own little habits in the private gym.

Another set of twelve, another twenty-five pounds on the stack. Sweat was staining his workout shirt, drying prickly on his bare legs. The urge to jerk off was getting stronger, but he promised himself that he'd hit three hundred before he gave in. ...Then less than a minute later he was stopping halfway through his hundred-fifty and jamming the pins in all the way down the weight stack, because three hundred had better be right fucking now.

He settled back and gripped the weight bar.

"What are you doing in there?"

The fucking skull's fucking voice cut through the fucking white noise and the fucking wall mother fuck.

"Working out. Be out in a minute," he grunted, hoping that if he at least pretended to be polite the thing would just shut up and let him finish.

"Something's buzzing," the skull protested. "Are you watching porn? Is it Double-end Double-D Dames?"

"How the hell do you -- never mind. It's not a porno. Just GIMME a minute." He followed through on a rep and the vibe hit the right spot; his dick twitched, a line of precum smearing across his belly, and his eyes threatened to roll back.

"Can I come see?" the voice wheedled, and Hendricks said:

"Yeah, sure."

"... Really?" the skull asked cautiously.

"Hey, I gave you permission to watch." Hendricks said nastily, rocking up for another rep. He could barely tell where the muscle tension ended and the vibrator began; his whole body burned, heat pooling under his arms, behind his knees, between his skin and the metal frame of the machine. "I didn't say I was going to get up and bring you in here."

And then golden light streamed under the door -- streamed, really, like a liquid -- and coiled up into a candle flame ball, and Hendricks realized too late that he should have fucking read the fucking file that Dresden had left with him.

"Oh WOW," the light-ball said, in, as Hendricks had kind of been afraid of, Bob's voice. "Ooooh you're so kinky. What are you giving me that look for? You said -- oooh." The disembodied voice went sly. "You didn't know I could come OUT. You accidentally let me OUT. Wait till I tell Harry--"

"You have to obey my orders," Hendricks snapped, erection dying as blood rushed up to turn his ears red and restart his brain. "That means get back in the skull. I said you could watch. You've watched. Deal complete. Back in."

"I wouldn't do that," Bob said, and even though it didn't have a face Hendricks could hear the smirk. "Let me stay or I'll tell Harry you let me out. I'll tell him everything."

"You think I'm going to let a dangerous spirit run around because I'm, what, embarrassed? I'll give him a fucking demonstration if he wants," Hendricks growled. "You go back in. Right now."

The ball trembled, a little shake like it was trying to push off a grasping hand. "Come on," it said, voice suddenly pleading. "We can make a deal. A better deal." In a burst, it sped towards him and dissipated into nothing a second before it hit him --

\-- no, it wasn't gone, just spread out, tiny half-visible motes resting against his skin, glittering in the overhead light. He stared dumbly for a second.

Then every nerve in his body flipped on, double-time, and he jammed his wrist into his mouth to muffle a yell. His erection slapped his stomach.

"Come on, come on, please?" Bob's voice whispered in his ear, suddenly ragged. "It feels so GOOD, I could make it feel SO GOOD --"

He tasted metal in his mouth and realized that he'd sunk his teeth so far into his wrist that he'd drawn blood. It didn't hurt, not in a way that he was used to anything hurting. Pain was pain. Pain wasn't pain towing a trailer full of electricity and pleasure. He pulled his hand away from his mouth and looked at the teethmarks with narrowing eyes.

"You want this?" he growled, gritting his teeth.

"... duh," the voice said, in both ears this time, so close it was like it was on headphones.

"How bad do you want this?" His grimace turned into a nasty grin.

"I won't turn on Harry," was the instant response. "You and your boss get nothing that could hurt him."

Not what he was after. But surprising. "I wasn't talking corporate espionage, Tinkerbell," he grunted. "I'm talking truce. I'm talking you shutting the hell up when I'm watching TV unless you have something constructive to say. I'm talking moratorium on the bathroom language and all the redhead jokes."

"Oookay," Bob said, cautious.

"I'll let you ride along until I get off: once I'm in the shower, you're back in the skull. If you can do mojo that keeps any noise from getting out of this room, you DO it," he said, spelling it all out with mercenary coldness, keeping his mind on track only because of long practice with concentration-under-fire. "I'll leave one porno of your choice on the tube when I go to bed, and you can read two books of your choice or one magazine -- quietly, no color commentary -- while I'm asleep. You can talk to me when I'm awake, but if I say a subject is off limits, it is off goddamn limits."

"I don't know. You might have to sweeten the pot." Bob's voice sounded casual, but there was an urgent tingle across Hendrick's skin that had to be a tell. Heh. A faery-tell.

He shrugged. "So I guess you don't want this." He shifted some weight onto his arms and legs, lifting his hips enough that he could swivel them in a gut-stirring circle that made his dick jerk.

"DEAL!" Bob gasped. "DEAL DEAL DEAL."

"Deal," he agreed, and the glowing sparks sank into him and set his brain on fire.

He'd never done acid, or E, but if you threw them in a blender and shot them intravenously he imagined it would feel like Bob in him. His muscles felt like glowing looked as he dragged the weights down -- three hundred pounds could have been three pounds if there wasn't a binding pressure where he'd wedged one knee under the pull-down pads to keep him from lifting off the seat. The burn of effort hit the filter Bob had laid on his nerves and turned into an erogenous shock like his arms were about to orgasm. He could have lifted a fucking JEEP over his head, but his dick might have exploded.

"... you ever meet Arnold Schwarzeneger?"

"Oh my god are you talking right now?" Bob demanded, cut off with a moan as Hendricks did another weightless rep, watching a stack of weights that weighed almost as much as he did rise in their tracks and lower slowly like they were hollow plastic models. His upper arms were one big erogenous zone, and either he or Bob turned his head to the side to suck lightly on one bicep -- and then bite, again, to muffle the howl at how good it felt.

A little scared at the intensity, he backed off and sucked down a breath before he slipped his knee out from under the hold pad, let his next pull and a little boost from his legs lift him almost all the way off the dildo and slid back down in a single gravity-assisted thrust that made stars go off behind his eyes.

"You kinky FUCKER," Bob grunted inside his head, and Hendricks could sort of feel him coiled in his stomach, or just south of there. "Harder! Again!" So they did.

Time slowed; it felt like Hendricks had been screwing himself on the vibe for hours -- probably just minutes -- when his arms gave out and he couldn't lift himself again. Even under normal circumstances that weightless worn-out feeling felt good -- on magic E, it almost shorted his brain. He was vaguely aware that he was gape-mouthed and drooling, that an ungodly amount of precum had his dick wet and was starting to trickle down his thighs to the crack of his ass. He gave one more attempt to haul himself up, and then growled with frustration. The vibrator wiggled merrily in his ass, almost but not quite enough to get him off then and there.

"Oops," the voice said in his head, all strained and lust-stupid and sheepish. "I, um. Yeah, okay, let's just sit down for a while."

A phantom pressure wrapped around his dick and pulled.

Bob must have soundproofed the room somehow, because the bellow he let out should have set off his security system. Bob cooed in his ear, coiling intangibly around his arms and over his thighs. "Hey, just let me borrow some of --" Hendricks felt fingers stir through the energy in his chest and groin, and the pressure on and around him became firmer, almost skin-physical even as the wild energy drained out and left lazy euphoria behind.

"Just sit there, big boy," Bob said, sounding a million miles away now that he wasn't echoing around in Hendricks' brain. "Don't wear out your big butch body."

He sagged, feeling like the vibrator up his ass was the only thing holding him upright. Everything but his dick was relaxed. He pried his eyes open and blinked against the light. There was a glowing shape sitting on his lap, like someone had dropped an oiled-up gay porn star on his dick and then disappeared everything but the reflection of the light on the baby oil. Hendricks could make out long hair, maybe pointed ears, lean limbs. Only the eyes were clearly defined, and they were candle flame orange.

Bob flashed the shadow of a grin at him, and then leaned over to swipe a tongue of flame over that place on his neck that always made him come when women bit it. Then he... bit it, and Hendricks didn't feel the teeth on his skin but sort of under it, hitting a little knot of pleasure that was attached by live wire to his dick.

Hendricks came.

* * *

 

When he woke up, he was slumped forward, lying over his bench with his knees splayed. The silicone vibrator was lying on the floor; it was either off or the batteries were dead. He ached like a motherfucker, but the afterglow made up for it. 'Afterglow.' Like a nuclear fucking explosion left an 'afterglow.'

"Shit," he grunted. "Need a shower." He tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn't move.

"Juuust a second, sweetcheeks." Bob was hovering in the air like the ghost of a gay jellyfish, long tendrils trailing across Hendricks' skin. "We're not done yet."

"Yeah. Yeah we are." Hendricks lifted a brow. "The deal--"

"-- Said it's over when you 'get off'. You didn't say get off what. I naturally assumed you meant 'get off the gym seat.'"

"You're really pulling this," Hendricks said, unamused.

Bob chuckled, and energy arced through one of the glowing tentacles and sent a zing of pleasure through the skin over Hendricks' hip. "Yup. Give it up, buddy. You're mine until daylight," he gloated. "I'm going to use you, abuse you, and put you away wet. You're going to come more times than a football team snowed in at a brothel. And you're going to love every single second of it."

"Yeah. Or, you could give me my legs back and let me go shower. I have work tomorrow." Hendricks rolled his back, frowning as the vertebrae popped. "Because if you genuinely go through with this 'gotcha' literalist bullshit, then your chances of ever doing this again are going to drop below snowball-in-hell level."

"You're bluffing. You weren't going to do this again," said Liberace the jellyfish sulkily. "You wouldn't seriously consider--"

"I hadn't ruled it out," Hendricks said, and coughed in a way he hadn't after a workout in years. "Unlike your boss, I know what mutually beneficial means."

"Don't trifle with my affections. I'm not that kind of spirit," Bob said, but was cautiously drifting from side to side, listening instead of threatening.

"Listen. You could be here a while. I work out every night. And after that? If you can convince your boss to give you a sleepover, we can talk business again. Shit," he scoffed. "If nothing else, at least my TV works."

"I do this out of the goodness of my heart," Bob the jellyfish said finally, but the glowing tentacles withdrew into the ball of energy and Hendricks' legs moved when he told them to. He stood up with a groan -- oh Christ there was no muscle IN him that had not been worked to death -- but stayed on his feet.

"You're a peach, Bob," he said sarcastically, and started the aching hobble towards the shower.

* * *

 

Dresden showed up on the thirteenth day at a quarter to midnight, knocking solidly against the door in a way he might have meant to be more ominous than it was. Of course, by the time Hendricks had hauled himself off the couch, put his book down, readied his firearm and checked to see who it was, Dresden was slumped against the door, braced with an arm on either side of frame.

"Did you order STRIPPERS?" Bob swiveled from where he'd been napping on the coffee table to peer excitedly at the door.

"It's your boss," Hendricks said. "I think he might be dead."

On the other side of the peephole Dresden slumped further and caught himself before he fell over, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "Never mind." Hendricks reevaluated his opinion again when he opened the door and Dresden stared at him like he'd forgotten why he was there.

"You waiting for something, Dresden?" The dark eyes focused on his own, holding for a second longer than Hendricks was comfortable with, feeling something start to tug at the ground beneath his feet before he jerked his gaze away and scowled darkly. "Watch it. I don't need to know you that well."

"Hey, Boss!" Bob shouted from the living room. "Boss, you're back! Did you get me anything?"

Dresden waved at Bob, the movement twitchy, fingers toodling independent of the others. "He behaved himself?" he asked, and hoisted a case of beer from up by his feet, rocking at the weight distribution.

"Of course I did!"

"We made it work," Hendricks said evenly. "Not as annoying as some people I could mention." He turned the corners of his mouth up in a nasty smile, just in case Dresden wasn't sure who he meant. "That for me?"

Dresden squinted at him suspiciously; Hendricks couldn't tell if he was trying to sort out an answer from Hendricks' evasiveness or just having trouble understanding the words -- he looked _fried_ \-- then swung the case up and held it out, murmuring a word that frosted the bottles over. "...That's probably the most useful thing I've ever seen you do," Hendricks said. "Next time, you owe me two cases upfront. Wait here." He took the beer, and closed the door in Dresden's face.

He rounded up Bob's stuff, even the file folder he'd eventually rescued from the floor beside the door after that first night with the Dumb Thing (he really, really should have read it when Dresden had given it to him; although, if he'd known about that thing with the sorority, he wouldn't have dared even think about jacking off with the skull nearby) which had become a whole lot dumber, but no one ever said he didn't know how to let his dick get him into trouble. He packed the magazines and romance novels Dresden had provided for Bob's feeding back in the canvas grocery bag, and debated the small stack he'd built up by holding up his end of their deal, finally dumping in the magazines and leaving the novels. "You can read them when you're here," he grunted when Bob started to protest, and scooped the skull up ("Whee! Take me higher, big boy!") to plop him back in his box.

Dresden was staring blankly at the door when it opened again, then jerked to awareness, gaze zeroing in on the box.

"Get lost," Hendricks advised him, shoving the bag and Bob's box into his arms. "Go."

The wizard blinked. Sort of. His brain was slipping gears; one eye closed before the other. Kind of like an owl, Hendricks thought. A really dumb owl. Then he started to shuffle away down the hall, shushing the box that had started to talk to him. Hendricks debated just letting him go; he looked like a crazy homeless person, which was the best camouflage you could get in Chicago.

...But if he turned up dead the shit would hit the fan, wouldn't it?

He trudged to the phone and called a number.

"Marcone," John answered briskly, because this was the line he set aside for his people: anyone who called it had better have business to talk, and that did not include new siding on your house.

"Dresden's back," Hendricks said, just as briskly. "Seriously impaired. Didn't look injured, but he's exhausted. He left my front door two minutes ago, which means he may find his way out of the building in five."

"I'll put eyes on him. Thank you, Mister Hendricks," John said, not at all like a guy who was irrationally attached to the idiot wizard. Hendricks sighed. There was a pause and John's voice said, with just the faintest edge of irritation: "Is something the matter, Mister Hendricks?"

"Just tell me again how the wizard is good for business, Johnny," he rumbled.

"I'll see you at work." Nothing faint about the irritation now, and John hung up. That was okay; on the rare occasion that either one of them admitted that he'd known the other since before they could legally drink, it was assumed that all the business etiquette shit went out the window. Especially if one of them was poking at a sore spot. A Dresden shaped sore spot, or a Helen shaped one. Or, occasionally, a Gard shaped one, which was why he forgave Johnny for being a shit about the wizard. Because. You know. He could do dumb things sometimes, too.

At least he had the good sense to keep it strictly business.


End file.
